projection
by novae mienai
Summary: Nathan's first cry for help, and the man who didn't answer it. Nathan & Jefferson, character study, or something


a/n: it's always unnerving to join a new fandom, but hi! I have many complicated thoughts about this game. I don't remember the last time it's taken me so long to get over something. (I'm still not over it.)

I decided to write something about our whatevathefuck boy. It's not much and it's not a shipfic (tbh I'm caulscott trash sorry not sorry) so idk who will care about it but yeah! It was great to write fanfic again. harder than I remembered, though!

it was tough trying to get Nathan's voice right. I worry I made him sound smarter than he is, haha. also the swearing omg. Though I think Nathan in-game hides his intelligence, and he does appreciate art. I really liked the part in the game where you go through his room. His room said so much about him.

this takes place before the game starts. Nathan and Jefferson's first meeting. but the narration is retrospective as you'll seeeee

* * *

Our first assignment in his class was "take a picture of something only you can see."

He'd built up to it with a fuckton of romantic bullshit like "your lens is the window to your soul, show me what's _inside you_ " and it was sickening how the chicks lapped it all up without a question. He was a pompous little piece of shit. One of those freaks so absorbed in his 'art,' absorbed in his fucking _self_ , that he couldn't focus on what was in front of him. I wanted nothing to do with him.

Victoria was practically wiping his ass, though. It was rare for her to give anyone her stamp of approval, so even if I was skeptical, I was curious. She could see things in people I couldn't, I guess you could say. She could always read _me_ , at least, intuit my mood from just a glance. And she could always tell when I was lying or holding something in. So when she started dancing in his lap, well shit, who was I to judge? I just snickered to myself and went on my merry fucking way.

I didn't give that assignment a second thought. The day it was due, I skipped his useless-ass class and sat by the parking lot with a joint. I was there for who knows how long, I barely noticed when the bell rang and the yard started to fill with people—then he came down the stairs.

He played his teacher role well. Pristine slacks and a button-up, smooth with clean creases, patient but snarky. A stack of folders in his hands—the way he held them made them seem more important than the junk efforts of pretentious high schoolers. "Nathan," he said. There was light amusement in his voice. "Missed you in class today."

I breathed in some smoke, which helped me to not spit at his feet. "What do you want?"

He smiled despite my tone. Surprisingly kindly. It was an attractive smile (objectively speaking). Probably what made all those brainless bitches in class wet for him.

(But they can't get with their teacher. So they get themselves drunk at parties and settle for me. It doesn't bug me, not at all. It's pretty funny, actually. But fucking sad.)

"Well, I can tell it isn't the most prominent thing on your mind at the moment—but it's worth a shot. Do you have your assignment?"

If it was any of those other spineless teachers, they'd have ignored me and hurried to their car. They knew not to mess with the shadow of my father. But Jefferson. He wasn't going to leave before he was satisfied. He stood too close, towering over me and blockading the sunlight, but I wasn't going to move for him, give him the satisfaction of making me get up. I kept my eyes on the ground, rolled the joint between my fingers, reached into the fog of my mind for a witty send-off—but none came.

If he was any of those other spineless teachers, I'd have snapped by now. Scared them away with a medley of swear words. But when I looked up to tell him to piss off, I found myself frozen. There was glass over my mind and a hand over my mouth. I couldn't think or speak a word. His eyes were piercing.

Then the cold, almost clinical sensation of a hand slithering across my skin.

 _Too many fucking drugs, Nathan._

"Nathan?" His voice came through the fog. "Tell you what. I'll give you a second chance. An extension. Bring me your photo first thing tomorrow. Alright?"

I managed to scoff. "Whatever."

My eyes trailed his feet as he stepped into his car and drove away. It felt like forever until I could think straight again.

* * *

The next day, I shuffled into his office during my morning science class and flicked a single photograph onto his desk.

"Well, Nathan. I didn't expect you to pull through."

No one got that snide with me. _No one._

"Damn right," I sneered. My mind was clear this morning. I'd prepared. "Do _not_ expect anything from me. You don't get to do that." And I slammed the door behind me.

* * *

When I got that assignment back, it was through Victoria. She came to my room, waving it in her hand. My photograph, paper-clipped to Jefferson's assessment.

"Mr. Jefferson asked me to give this to you," she said, somehow even prouder than she usually was. It's shameful that she'd be so proud to be a fucking messenger girl. She sat next to me on the couch and held out my assignment. I took it and ran my eyes over the comments.

 _This is an A-plus work, Nathan._ _A hand on another's shoulder. Taken in monochrome._ _At first glance it looked to me like a thoughtless shot, but if you look closer, there's an arresting contrast—both the softness of comfort and the intensity of control and manipulation. The emotion is there, and technically it's near-perfect. I wouldn't have thought it from first impressions, but you have a lot of potential. I'm surprised you took this assignment seriously, but pleasantly so. I'm impressed. Amazing job._

He'd written in cursive, showy and barely legible. Jefferson was a man of form over function, after all, to a horrifying extremity. But those words, simple as they were, worked so well. So horribly well.

Something inside me burned. I closed my eyes for a second, then read it again. Then again. Then tossed the assignment onto the floor. But I didn't toss it far enough, and the photo I'd taken yesterday lay right in front of me, staring at me.

I saw too much when I looked at that picture. Too much of myself. I didn't like to look at myself. But Jefferson made me, for this dumb-ass assignment. And little did I know he'd keep making me. Pulling his strings and tying me up in front of a fucking proverbial mirror.

"Look at yourself, Nathan," he would say. His voice scathing. Fuck, it _hurt_. Fuck him. Fuck him.

Everything he did to me. All the times I went crying to him without a goddamn sense of shame. If only I just ignored him. Not turned in that assignment. Not actually fucking _tried_ on that assignment. Maybe he'd never have noticed me. If only I didn't try to prove myself, if only I'd just _not cared_ like always. I wasn't supposed to care about any of this. But I was fucking stupid. I thought if I tried hard enough, my efforts would come through. I had _hope_ —whatever the fuck you'd call it.

While he was busy with Kate, I sat watching from the couch. He talked while he shot. I listened. He'd said, almost absent-mindedly, "You know what I like about Kate?" The shutter clicked. "Her soul. Her soul is beautiful." _Click_. "She knows pain, she knows how cruel the world can be—" _click_ , "but she still… hopes. I saw that in her photographs."

He stood, and seemed to hesitate. Then he went on, almost cautiously. "You know, Nathan, she reminds me of you. Now, we make a great team, but…" A small, thoughtful smile. I could've sworn even apologetic. "If you were a girl, you'd probably be down there with her."

Never again. Never again.

Victoria's voice floated in from somewhere far away. "Sorry I couldn't help reading his comments. But Jefferson loved your photo. He was more enthusiastic about yours than mine! I'm so fucking frustrated, but good for you, Nathan." Then she tore her gaze from my photo and saw me, and her smile dropped.

"Nathan… God, are you okay? Have you been taking your meds?"

She was tactful, Victoria. She didn't say anything more about the photo, asked what the shot meant. She knew, though, obviously.

And in retrospect, I know Jefferson had understood, too.

He probably laughed.


End file.
